


The Warrior

by Queen_Valkyrie



Series: Fake AH Origins [4]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, GTAV AU, Immortal Fake AH Crew, fem!Jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 10:49:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6563284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queen_Valkyrie/pseuds/Queen_Valkyrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They call him The Vagabond. The Mad Mercenary. Heartless and ruthless and vicious and brutal. But there's so much they don't know about him.<br/>He's the oldest. And the deadliest. And the most broken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Warrior

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, I'm continuing the origin stories! Here's our favorite mercenary. Hope you guys enjoy it!

Other people remembered their first lives.

Ryan didn’t.

He didn’t remember his childhood, or his school, or his friends.

He didn’t even remember his mother.

All he remembered was the glint of the other warrior’s armor in the harsh sunlight, and the sweat and blood that dripped down his face underneath his helmet. He remembered seeing the audience and his king shove their thumbs downward.

He remembered the flash of pain that shot through his body as the other warrior thrust the point of their gleaming sword down into his chest.

He remembered the blackness that swallowed him as he died on the floor of the coliseum.

What he remembered most of all, however, was the blinding white light that woke him not five minutes after he died.

He had died, he was sure of it. The other gladiator had killed him in the middle of thousands of people. There could be no doubt.

He was still wearing his armor on his shoulders. There was a blood-stained tear in his shirt where the sword had ran him through, but his chest was whole, healed, and unscarred.

He remembered running. He didn’t remember how long, or how far away. But he remembered the ache in his legs, and the heavy panting, and the furious tears that rolled town his sweat-coated face.

He remembered the wind howling past his ears as he fell from the highest cliff he could find.

He remembered waking up from that too.  
………………………

He remembered wandering.

From Rome he wandered all across the world. Europe first. Spain and France and the remnants of Greece and, though it took him decades to get there, England. After Europe he took to Egypt and what was left of Israel, and from there he traveled to Asia.

He didn’t remember what year it was when he came to America. But he had heard about their split from England years ago, and their hope sounded promising.

He went to the young country and took the common name James as his own, and attempted to build a life with some semblance of normalcy.

But it was hard, after years of repetition, for anything to provide with him with excitement. It all seemed mundane to him. So he moved to a city where he was unknown, and he reveled in the rush that crime provided him.

He moved around and honed his skills until he was unmatched in the criminal world, and then he took everything he wanted. He threw out the name James and took the name of a kid who he had worked with years ago.

Ryan.

In the sixties, he figured he should probably hide his identity if he didn’t want to be recognized throughout his years of crime. So he moved to California, bought a mask that covered his whole face, and became someone else.

He was vicious. Brutal. Heartless.

The police dubbed him a vagabond, and he took the title in stride.

Sometimes, the loneliness got to him, and he would spend the nights on his floor, balled up and shaking, but he always forced himself to get back up in the morning.

After all, it wasn’t like he could do anything about the loneliness. Even if he found people to ease the pain, it would only get worse when they faded away as well. And he couldn’t fade away with them.

He had tried.

It was 1974 when he was contacted for a job by a tall, red-headed woman in the ugliest hawaiian shirt he had ever seen. She said she was from the Fake AH Crew.

He had heard of them. They were small, but vicious, and better at what they did than most crews he had encountered before.

She was Pattillo. There was a kid called Free. And of course, there was Ramsey, who was infamous and reveled in it.

So he took the job.  
……………………

They were surrounded by cops when Ramsey went down.

Bullets riddled his chest just as Pattillo grabbed Ryan and pulled him into the backseat of the getaway car. Free was in the front and he slammed on the gas, leaving Ramsey behind in an ever-growing pool of his own blood.

“He’s dead,” Free muttered, keeping his eyes trained on the road.

Pattillo cocked her pistol and set her jaw. “It happens.”

Ryan was shocked by how unaffected they seemed. Even if they had prepared themselves for the death of a crew member, there would still usually be some semblance of grief. But Pattillo’s face was a mask of cold, and Free’s voice was void of emotion entirely.

He never thought he’d meet people as heartless as he pretended to be, and yet here they were.

When Free skidded into the driveway of the safehouse, Pattillo quickly slid Ryan onto her shoulders and helped carry him in through the front door.

“You got shot,” she said hurriedly, her voice gentler now than it was in the car. “In the head. I’m going to need to treat it.”

He shook his head furiously. “No, I’m fine.”

“Is it because of the mask?”

He didn’t reply.

“Look, you either keep your anonymity or you live. Which would you prefer?”

He rolled his eyes. He could do both. He could wait to bleed out and then he would reappear a few blocks away, and never return to the Fake AH Crew.

But that would be a pain. And if they ever found him again, like they did the first time, they’d know what he was. Which he certainly didn’t want to risk. Oh, sure, he could just kill them once they found out. But they had just saved his life. And he figured that killing them’d be a pretty shitty way to pay them back.

So, reluctantly, he slid off the skull mask, smearing the sweaty streaks of his face paint on the mask’s edge.

Pattillo let out a huff and rolled her eyes good-naturedly. “Alright, don’t move,” she murmured softly, taking a washcloth soaked in hydrogen peroxide to the graze mark on the side of his head. He winced at the pain and she apologized under her breath. After she cleaned away the blood, she took a long strip of fabric and wrapped it tightly around his skull, tucking the end underneath a few other layers to keep it secure.

“There you go,” she said, giving him a small pat on top of his head for good measure. They moved to the couch, where Free was sitting and counting out the bills they had managed to bring in from today’s heist.

Ryan and Pattillo both picked up a couple of guns and towels and started cleaning the excess gunpowder out, working methodically in silence.

After what seemed like ages (but was probably just a few minutes), Ryan eyed his pistol gingerly. “Why’d you save me and not Ramsey?”

Pattillo looked at him with piercing hazel eyes. “Huh?”

“You pulled me out of the way, not Ramsey.”

“He was already shot.”

“Only once or twice. He could have survived. But you didn’t grab him, you grabbed me. And he’s your boss, I’m just the hired help.”

She shrugged in response. “I guess I didn’t really think about it. Plus, he’s old.”

Ryan furrowed his golden eyebrows. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You’re younger. You’ve got your life ahead of you.”

 _Oh, if only you knew,_ Ryan thought.

“It’s what Geoff would have wanted.”

“That’s…” Ryan struggled to find the words. “That’s surprisingly moral.”

“Hey,” Free grinned at him. “We’re criminals, not total arseholes.”

At that, the door to the safehouse burst open and a voice echoed through. “I can’t fucking believe you left me behind!”

Geoff Ramsey stood in the doorway, glaring furiously, his tuxedo riddled with bullet holes, but his body physically unharmed, and Ryan dropped his pistol in shock.

Geoff turned his eyes towards the mercenary and a panicked look crossed his face. “You’re still here,” he muttered.

_He was alive. He had died in front of Ryan’s eyes and here he was, in the doorway, alive and well and torn between fury and panic._

“You died,” Ryan found himself replying. “You _died._ ”

Geoff stuck out his arms in an attempt at justification. “No, I--”

 _He can’t die, you idiot,_ his conscience shouted at him. _He’s like you. There are more._

Ryan’s hand slid to cover his mouth as hot tears raced down his cheeks, carrying trails of the face paint with them.

“ _You’re alive,_ ” he managed, as Pattillo and Free both turned to him.

“Please, Vagabond,” Geoff pleaded, “I can explain--”

“Ryan,” he interrupted.

“What?”

“My name’s Ryan. And you don’t have to explain.”

“What--” Ramsey furrowed his dark eyebrows. “You’re just fine with it?”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

All three looked at him expectantly.

“Me too,” he choked out. “417 A.D.”

Their mouths fell open in unison, and Pattillo breathed out a soft “Oh my god.”

“Ryan,” Ramsey said, sitting gingerly next to the mercenary, “I don’t know what kind of shit you must have gone through in all those years. But we’re here now. And we’re not gonna die on you.”

Ryan let out a chuckle.

“Do you want to join the Fake AH Crew?”

“I do,” Ryan admitted. “God, I do.”

“Great,” Ramsey grinned. “Then it’s official.”

“I’m Gavin,” Free announced, smiling from ear to ear.

“Jack,” Pattillo said, giving him the most caring face she had.

“And I’m Geoff,” Ramsey finished, sticking his hand out for Ryan to shake.

The mercenary gripped Geoff’s hand firmly, breaking out in the first genuine smile he had in years. “Ryan Haywood.”

Geoff laughed a little and shook Ryan’s hand. “Good to meet you, Ryan.”


End file.
